Redneck Confessions

by Donalee Wallace

Some of us could use a little more protection — from ourselves


One morning, while still dreary-eyed,
I meandered into the bathroom
and reached for the Listerine. I
unscrewed the cap and chugged
a mouthful to gargle. I recall
spewing all over the bathroom
mirrors when I realized I’d grabbed the Absorbine
Jr. Trust me, it’s monumentally hideous.”
This is my opening salvo against my friend R.J. in
one of our “who’s the bigger loser” phone battles.
“Absorbine Jr. is vile-smelling liniment my mother
kept in the bathroom cabinet when I was a kid,” I add.
“Oh that’s foul.” R.J. is sympathetic for all of
two seconds before sharing a story of his own.
“Get this: I was fuelling my truck up at the fast-gas
down the block from my house. I put the gas cap back
on, paid the cashier and went home. Two hours later I
wanted to visit a friend and realized that my truck was
gone. While freaking out on the phone with the police
constable I looked out my window and gasped in horror
when I saw my truck still parked in front of the gas pump.”
Silence on the phone.
Finally he says, “Can you beat that?”
“Well, I had another unfortunate incident with
Absorbine Jr. While rubbing it into a sore lower
back muscle it ran down into my butt-crack and into
places I’m sure it wasn’t meant to go. My shrieks were
louder than the slamming of the bathroom door and
I had the water running full blast for an hour.”
Silence again, with wheels turning.
R.J. finally responds. “Did I tell you about the other
day? Leaving Safeway I jumped in my truck and the damn
thing wouldn’t start. Tried everything, then I looked in the
rearview mirror and noticed my truck parked behind me.”
“Hmmm,” I mutter.
I divulge an incident that
happened when I was a server at a
fine dining restaurant in Vancouver.
“I approached a table with
a very sharply dressed gentleman
sitting with his back to
me. His Giorgio Armani jacket
swung like a money belt on the
back of the leather chair and
matched his Bottega Veneta
shoes. I greeted him with
my sexiest ‘good evening, sir,
can I bring you a drink?’ The
customer turned to me. ‘I’ll have
a vodka martini, extra olives,’
said the very sharply dressed
woman. I could have vaporized.
“Oh yeah,” I continue. “I
recently rendered yet another
disturbing assault on my privates.
In the middle of a romantic
interlude I reached for the K-Y Jelly
and grabbed the A535 instead. I
don’t think my feet touched the
floor on the way to the can. I’m
not too proud of that one.”
Puffed up like the best of
the big losers, I expose one last
kicker to seal the deal — mistaking
Vagisil for toothpaste.
R.J. admits defeat. “My
friend, you are the winner
of one free CT scan.”